


Inceptiversary 2012 scavenger hunt prize fics!

by orphan_account



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-25
Updated: 2012-10-25
Packaged: 2017-11-17 00:16:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/545399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of four prize fics -- written by a group of volunteers -- for the winners of the Inceptiversary 2012 scavenger hunt. Various pairings, ratings, and lengths (please see notes or chapter titles for more information)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Arthur/Saito, NC-17, 3k

**Author's Note:**

> Arthur/Saito, NC-17, 3k.  
> For mincamo.

In the half-hour lull before dusk, a million Tokyo windows wash orange with the dying light, sundown caught in their westward faces. This is how you pick out the living cities from the dead ones; you watch for the way they kindle in the gloaming. A speckled constellation of electric stars, beginning to glitter in the lengthening cast of high-rise shadows. Night settles like a stain, thin and blue.

Arthur runs a towel through his hair and looks out over the city sprawling three hundred feet below him. _Every light,_ he thinks, _the glow of someone’s heart._ Someone standing at the center of every pinprick of fire. Dizzying, just how many pairs of headlights go skimming across the fluvial length of Tokyo’s highways-- how many _lives_ churn past him, and him alone on the thirtieth floor, a hotel suite he wouldn’t know how to afford, steam curling from his skin.

In his reverie or in the white hum of the fan, he doesn’t hear the card key snick. Just a tendril of cool air as the bathroom door nudges open a bit wider, then a hand on his bare shoulder, the press of familiar lips against the crook of his neck. The rasp of stubble, a careful inhale.

“Didn’t hear you come in,” murmurs Arthur, tilting his head away.

Saito, padding like a big cat across the carpeted floor. His teeth graze against the thrum of Arthur’s pulse point, and at the brief shock it sends through him, perched there on the lip of the bathtub in his boxer briefs and a towel wilting over his eyes, Arthur tightens his grip on the marble until his knuckles ache.

“I’ll take it you’re glad to be back,” says Arthur.

“Were you thinking of something?” asks Saito. He winds his fingers through Arthur’s damp curls, the towel sliding off to crumple into the bathtub.

“No,” says Arthur. “Nothing.”

 

 

Arthur doesn’t know what he expected -- for Saito’s eyes to be red-rimmed from fourteen hours on board, for his clothes to hang a little looser on him, perhaps -- but Saito is as sleek and inscrutable as always, a panther. He sheds his suit jacket at the foot of the bed and Arthur watches the roll of his shoulders under his shirt.

“Jungle cat,” Arthur calls at him, and it’s less an endearment than it is a challenge, and less that than it is a feeble attempt at knowing him. Like invoking something invisible, a losing fight. Like naming a hurricane.

Saito doesn’t answer immediately, but a corner of his mouth quirks up. It’s too brittle to be a smile. Only after he undoes his tie and discards his socks, he says, “and here I thought I took you in.”

“I’m not your stray,” Arthur bristles. “You hired me. I work for you.”

“You’re right,” says Saito, evenly. “I apologize.”

What a farce. Saito leans down to kiss him, Arthur leans back on his elbows, and they try not to let the truth get in their way. Arthur works for him. After a fashion; barely a week after Cobb stumbled back home to a life of sweet obscurity, Saito had Arthur on the phone, asked him if he’d consider a position as the in-house investigator for Proclus Global.

 _I don’t think you know what I do,_ said Arthur.

 _In-house larcenist, then,_ said Saito.

 _Well,_ said Arthur, _that’ll be difficult to explain on the payroll,_ because he couldn’t think of a good reason to refuse. It was very bad timing-- or very good timing, those seven days of silence, standing in the wake of Cobb’s infectious peace and wondering what it would feel like to come to rest somewhere. So he’d give it a go, why wouldn’t he? He’d let the routine bore him, see what it felt like, stay until the monotony began to chafe.

Saito keeps him here in a city of lights and there isn’t a single thing to chafe against. The sheets beneath him are a silk like water, barely there at all. The backseat leather of Saito’s sedan, the discreet eyes of the chaffeur in the rearview mirror, the single-level dreams where he plucks the easy pickings like overripe fruit. God, how everything gives. How _he_ gives, spreading his legs under Saito’s hands, sinking into the bed. How easy it comes.

“You have something on your mind,” says Saito, against Arthur’s temple, fingers hooked in his waistband.

“Why do you keep saying that?” asks Arthur. “What are you getting at,” though Saito brushes a light thumb over the head of his half-hard cock and the hitch in his breath deprives the demand of some of its force.

Saito, being Saito, says nothing. Just closes his teeth over the shell of Arthur’s ear and goes on stroking him, a bit distractedly, like there’s something on his own mind. _There is, isn’t there,_ thinks Arthur. Saito seems-- hungrier than usual, a particular insistence to the way he puts his mouth on him. Like he can’t decide whether to ask Arthur a question or to somehow work the answer out of him. It’s a prevarication Arthur would object to, but absurdly enough, he can’t stop tilting his hips up into Saito’s hand. _Will you just ask me already,_ he means to say, only managing a shaky gasp when he opens his mouth.

Precome beads at his slit, dampening the thin cling of his briefs. Saito smears a slow, deliberate streak down his shaft, swallowing the moan straight off of Arthur’s tongue. He is a businessman and he doesn’t fight fair, so that’s when he says, lips a little dry against Arthur’s, “I saw him today.”

 _Who,_ Arthur starts to ask, but the pretense is pointless so he settles instead for a tired _where._

“Mahjong parlor,” says Saito, “next door to Menya Takemitsu.”

 _Jesus fucking Christ, Eames,_ thinks Arthur, desperately, like Eames might possibly hear him if only he meant it hard enough. How long has that bastard been in Tokyo? Slinking around in his painstakingly rumpled clothes, unlit cigarette dangling from his lips. The paper money an unruly lump in his pocket, scuffed soles, nails clicking against his misspelled fucking Mombasa-issue poker chip. _Ron,_ his voice. _Chiitoitsu._

“He ought to be careful,” says Saito, idly. “Shouldn’t mix with the wrong crowd.”

“He _is_ the wrong crowd,” snaps Arthur. “You know I told him not to come?”

“You told him not to come,” says Saito, “or you didn’t tell him to come?”

“--It doesn’t matter,” says Arthur. “I don’t know why he’s here, I don’t-- maybe he’s got a job lined up, did you think about that? It’s a big city. There are plenty of employers besides you looking to get in on shared dreaming, maybe he’s working for a competitor of yours, maybe you can turn me loose and I can beat the shit out of him--”

“You’re not my stray,” says Saito. “You do what you want to do.”

Arthur is about to answer, but then he finds that there’s really nothing he can say. He throws an arm over his eyes. God-- told him not to come, but he did anyway. He always does. Eames goes on moving on the insides of Arthur’s lids, fidgeting with his tenbo, chair creaking under him as he shifts into a slouch.

“That fucking asshole,” Arthur says out loud, as though it could ward him off.

“Arthur,” begins Saito. The note of concern in his voice is unwelcome enough for Arthur to keep his arm where it is, but even in his solicitude, Saito is too imperious to be turned away by any obstacle as flimsy as that. “Tell me,” he says anyway, and then -- in that grave, unequivocal way he has of closing in for the kill -- “are you happy?”

 _Not unless your hand starts moving again,_ or _I don’t know, is anyone ever truly happy,_ a thousand ways to weasel out and Saito wouldn’t allow any one of them. Irritated with the forthrightness of the question, Arthur grits his teeth against the barbs and says, “does it matter to you?”

Even as it leaves him, he knows that’s not right. They may not fight fair, but they don’t fight with dirty knives, either. This is squalor. Saito goes completely still over him, and under the heavy awning of his arm, Arthur bites down on his tongue until his time seems served and the pain turns bright and clean. He lets out a long sigh.

“Look,” he says, “I only meant--”

“No,” says Saito, half to himself. “You’re right. I have not been mindful enough of you, perhaps.”

Arthur lifts his arm, but Saito’s hands are already firm on his hips, coaxing him over onto his stomach. _What I meant was,_ he tries to say, twisting his head back to argue, and yet-- it’s the easiest thing in the world to let Saito handle him however he likes, to end up on his hands and knees in the middle of the bed. The sheets ripple under his weight.

If he were uncommonly honest with himself, Arthur would admit that he might have a dangerous taste for being indulged. The finer things seem finer when he doesn’t have to pay for them with broken bones, and coming to rest feels like a draught of fresh water for his gullet, parched from years of running against the wind.

With only the barest sliver of protest left in him, he waits. Saito’s knuckles slipping in beneath his waistband again, the slide of his briefs down his thighs, the indifferent hotel air against his flesh. _All of this, I’d miss,_ he thinks, and hates himself for wanting all the things that would tear him in half. To be at peace, to be on the move, to repose and to fight and to hang his hat, to lace up his boots, to look at a door and never to know which side it is that he wants to be on.

They’ve been at this for too long for Arthur to feel self-conscious, and it’s fine that Saito palms the curve of his ass a bit slowly, thoughtfully, like he just wants to take a moment to savor him. He doesn’t quite know what Saito means by _not been mindful enough_ ; he expects he’s in for the kind of tender stifling fuck that has him cursing up a storm by the end of it, nails against his own skin, the white exhaustion of release. That’s fine with him, he could do with something to drive him out of his mind. But then the warm, wet press of Saito’s fucking _tongue_ against his hole, and--

“-- _What,_ ” says Arthur, starting away, breath skittering in his throat. “Did you just--”

“Not so jaded as I thought, then,” says Saito. “Is this new?”

Well, no, once or twice, but not from someone like-- not from a man who wears his money like a weapon, who wears a lifetime of dreaming like an impenetrable shield. _Who am I to you,_ thinks Arthur, _what the hell do you keep me for,_ and looks for an answer in the crisp line of Saito’s jaw, the sinews sharp in his neck.

 _And yet you keep me._ The second touch and his eyes flutter closed, thrilling at the prickle of Saito’s stubble, this time. The heat in Saito’s exhale, then a long lick that flushes him all over, an old peculiar melting that starts where they meet and swims into all his limbs, a school of electric fish.

“Fuck,” Arthur gasps, unsteady fingers tangling in the sheets. There’s the slightest scrape of stubble across his skin, a brush. All at once Arthur realizes that it’s Saito _smiling_ against him, and-- god, Saito really is spoiling him rotten, no matter the business trips and the nights alone and the gentle ebb of his voice when his daughter calls him at work. Yes; maybe there are parts of him kept under locks that Arthur can never hope to unlock, rusted through in the half century spent in a castle by the sea. But _the same castle,_ said Saito, _that you and Cobb met me in, one level below Venezuela and two below the Shinkansen,_ and Arthur said, _I built that, you know, I built that castle for you,_ and was as sated as a child.

So maybe it’s not so important after all, the things that he can’t get at. This man made of edges and broad planes, drawn in silhouette, his jungle cat, this man wants to keep him. Rimming him open like lapping up cream, the roughened flat of his tongue a caress. Every attentive flick sends shivers down Arthur’s backbone, his spit-slicked hole twitching under the touch. It’s a sensation that leaves him panting, soft-mouthed and desperate, head hanging between his shoulders.

“Please,” he manages, though he hardly knows what he’s saying, “can you--”

Saito runs his teeth over the swell of his ass instead of asking, a lenient dragging bite, only enough to leave a brief dimple of notches in his flesh. The tip of Saito’s tongue swirls against him and then fucking dips _inside_ him for a quick moment, just teasing, but he’s all lit up and far too responsive, and the faint sound of surprise he makes is wet with sex, too candid, falling apart at just four inches of muscle toying with him.

“--More,” he stammers, “I-- I want--”

“If you wish,” says Saito, his voice fuzzy and distant through the rushing in Arthur’s ears. Bit by bit, Saito presses a slow finger into him-- it’s only the one finger, and Arthur’s so loose and pliant now that the caution is almost an annoyance-- but regardless, there’s something about the not-quite-enough of it that he loves. The luxury of ceding control, being under someone’s hands, someone’s tongue, letting them carry him to climax. The thrill of being enjoyed.

And it isn’t like the throbbing satisfaction of Saito’s cock inside him, stretching him and filling him up, the air punched out of his lungs with every thrust; but this delicious build of arousal is perfect in its own right, being stroked and petted until he thinks he can’t take it anymore, and then to part his thighs a little wider, all of his skin on fire, and to ride it out to the end.

Later, he thinks, when the languid afterglow is weighing him down, he might push Saito onto the bed and suck him off. A hot mouthful of his cock, the thin precome tang of salt. Just the thought of it curls a heat, dark in his spine, and Arthur whimpers with want, the head of his own cock jerking against his stomach.

“Impatient,” Saito tells him with a low chuckle. He puts his mouth to him again, licking where he’s fingering Arthur open. The shape of his ass around that finger comes across with such an obscene physicality, a wicked reminder of how eagerly he’s taking it in, that Arthur can’t help but clench tight around it. Which is what does it, apparently; Saito lets out an appreciate sort of hum, leans in, and crooks his finger.

“ _God,_ ” Arthur moans as his elbows give out, “fuck, _ah_ \--”

To his credit, Saito won’t even pretend like it’s just a prelude to something else, all focus, barely drawing out at all each time before he nudges against that sweet spot again. Every precise brush coaxes a helpless sound from him, his veins turning to channels of lava, knees spreading open shamelessly.

It’s all very quick, from then on-- he never lasts very long, having his ass played with, and he’s really a lost cause as soon as his prostate is involved. It turns him into a disheveled, incoherent wreck, ass up in the air, fucking himself back onto Saito’s finger. The sheets rub against his peaked nipples, the soft whisper of the silk tantalizing on his sensitive skin but too smooth to be enough, and he grinds his chest against the bed as he moves, desperate to be touched. He’s trembling to the tips of his fingers, making achy little noises as the heat gathers all the way in his goddamn bones.

“--can’t,” he gasps, the fan of his still-damp hair mottling the pillow as he writhes, “please-- _Saito,_ I--”

The surge of pleasure is almost unbearable, flooding him through, mounting and mounting without quite breaking the crest. Just a little more friction and it would be so perfect, driving him right over the edge into slack-limbed bliss-- but Jesus Christ, everything’s like pushing against water today. He’s shaking too hard to properly reach for his cock, and he whines in frustration, feeling himself spasm around Saito’s finger with the impending swell of climax.

Then, without a word, Saito puts his other hand on Arthur’s erection, and it only takes the bare hint of a palm skimming his shaft before he’s coming with a broken sob, the wave of orgasm wracking him, come spurting thick onto the fancy fucking sheets. It hits him so hard he thinks he might black out, vision blurring as his back arches high-- and Saito fingers him all the way through it, petting him gently even as he cries out and his ass draws tight around the finger inside him.

In that moment of release, deaf with the roar of his blood, Arthur’s mouth shapes around a word he can’t quite hear. With his eyes glazed over, the Tokyo lights outside his window are an indistinct blur. _And at the center of one of those fires,_ he thinks, _waiting for me to pack my bags and put on my best running shoes--_

The stir of Saito drawing out of him brings him back, and he shudders at the touch of a slick fingertip against his hole, moaning faintly through the aftershocks. Still a bit unsteady, he twists onto his side and reaches for the heft of Saito’s clothed erection where it glances against his thigh; brows knitted, Saito catches his wrist before he gets there.

“Talk to him,” says Saito.

“Why,” asks Arthur, collapsing onto his back, too tired to dance. Saito doesn’t let go of his wrist. “Is this a pact? Do I send you to all your continental mistresses and tell you to make a clean end of it? Eames isn’t--”

“The difference is that they’ll do fine without me,” says Saito. “And I always let them know when they shouldn’t expect me anymore.”

When he bends down for Arthur’s lips, the kiss is quiet and easy, makes him feel like a fucking lordling. It’s perfect and perfectly half of everything he wants; he is an ingrate and a coward, and there’s that silver voice in his head again, _houtei raoyui._ Waiting for him to play his hand. Waiting for him.


	2. Arthur/Eames, R, 2k

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arthur/Eames, R, 2k.  
> For jacobella.

When Eames woke up in the middle of the night to take a piss, Arthur was in his bathtub. "Hello," Arthur said. "I've been thinking, and I've decided I'd like to fuck you from behind on all fours until you scream my name, if that's perfectly alright with you."

There was a time and a place for Arthur to take up midnight lounge residence in Eames' bathtub. These were generally limited to:

a) Spontaneous hygiene failure  
b) Louisiana Mardi Gras  
c) Dedicated plumber

Eames, barely even awake after an overnight direct flight from Melbourne, shuffled to the loo, pulled down his pants, and relieved himself.

"Well, we can do that too," Arthur said thoughtfully. He looked relaxed in Eames' bathtub. Arthur and the tub were new best friends. Good for them, Eames thought. Maybe this was the start of a beautiful relationship, or a headache just underneath his right eye. Arthur stretched. A strip of bare skin showed as his polo shirt rode up.

"I'm going back to bed," Eames declared. "Please make me an omelette in the morning on your way out."

Arthur wriggled around in the tub. Took off his trousers.

"Have fun with that," Eames said, bored.

Arthur hooked one leg up over the rim of the bathtub, like he was modeling for Vanity Fair.

Eames yawned and scratched behind his balls.

Arthur looked at him directly. "Eames," he said.

"Goddamnit," Eames said, and leaned in to kiss him. Arthur immediately reached out and grabbed his dick, making Eames topple on top of him in a pile of warm limbs.

 

 

Like cats, small children, and the Euro, Arthur never stopped surprising him as to the depths he could fall. After a while this had reached what Eames liked to call the point of paradox: where something was so aggressively and persistently extraordinary, it became mundane. In this case, the extraordinary bit was what a fucking skank Arthur was.

Eames knew skanks. Skanks were very near and dear to his heart. And yet the difference between the skanks Eames knew and loved, and Arthur, was the difference between tripping down a flight of stairs and tripping down Kilimanjaro. Arthur's skank skills were so masterful and evolved that Eames was almost impressed, because there weren't too many people with such a powerful sixth sense for booty calls that they could probably sniff the wind and tell you which direction Eames' erection was pointing. Arthur was good. Arthur was horny. Arthur always showed up, without fail, to sprawl all over Eames' flat or pull him into a phone booth on the street, or against whatever tree was the most convenient — and then basically, pow! Sex bonanza. 

Two years ago, this had seemed a windfall. Arthur was gorgeous, funny, deadly, and apparently hot to trot for Eames' arse. Where was the downside? Eames had fallen into bed with him on a humid night in Indonesia, and they'd fucked the sheets sweaty, until Arthur had panted beneath him and Eames' arms shook with the force of his own thrusts.

They'd had fun together that night, and they started doing it some more. They'd have sex when they crossed jobs, or when Arthur decided to stealth-stalk his way into Eames' life, bringing a bottle of wine and lots of naked flesh. It was great in the beginning.

Now, not so much.

"You know," Eames said, about a month after they'd christened his bathtub. "We're in the Sahara, the hottest desert in the world. I'm on a job here." He had a shemagh wrapped around his neck, and he was squinting at the needle-sharp sun, waiting for the signal his mark was going to give him.

"What sort of job?" Arthur wondered, hands in his pockets, canteen hanging off his belt.

"My mark's a rugged survivalist type," Eames said.

"Like Bear Grylls."

"Sure."

Arthur looked around at the rolling poetry of the dunes, and then at Eames' camel, which was currently trying to eat his hair. "You should watch out for snakes," he suggested. "Except for the one I've got in my pants."

"Oh my god," Eames said, half caught between loathing, and he bore a laughing Arthur into the sand.

 

 

"You asked me why once."

"Hello, Arthur," Eames said calmly. He was in the department store trying on a new jumper, to replace the one he'd lost on the flight back from the Sahara. He didn't much like the one he was trying — the blue made him look like a consumptive wreck. 

Arthur leaned against the side of the fitting room, and the lady who was on duty melted at the sight of his smile. 

"Why what?" Eames said, fiddling with the collar.

"Why I like to have sex with you so much," Arthur said. He smiled again at the store employee. She smiled back.

"I rather thought it was the multiple orgasms," Eames said, and he meant for it to come out as lascivious, matching Arthur tit for tat. That was what Arthur wanted from him, wasn't it? Who he thought Eames was. Stylish, debonair, always up to sate Arthur's whims. Well, the truth of it was that Eames was a grouchy, cynical homebody who, in between international jet-setting criminal acts, liked to watch telly and take Instagram photos of his cat. There was a difference between the Eames he wanted his colleagues to believe and the Eames he actually was — he wondered if Arthur cared about the difference.

There was probably another Arthur too, one who wasn't cranked up to Want Me, Want Me Now 24/7. An Arthur who maybe had some acid reflux, ugly flannel PJs, and who never remembered to take out his trash.

Eames wanted to know that Arthur.

Arthur waited until the store employee was off handling a request by the cash registers. Then he leaned in and kissed Eames, long and easy, smiling with his eyes. 

_Do you eat your cereal hot or cold?_ Eames wondered, staring into them. _Do you believe in aliens? If you weren't in dreamshare, what would you be? When you're rubbing off against me, what are you thinking about?_

Half an hour later, they had sex behind a row of vests, and afterwards Eames said, casually, "I lost my old mobile and all my contacts. What's your number again?" If he were being honest, he'd never had Arthur's number, not legally anyway.

"I just changed it," Arthur said. "I don't remember it off the top of my head. I'll scribble it down for you later."

"I see," Eames said.

 

 

Maybe it was because Arthur was younger than he was. Maybe it was some new trend, where instead of frozen yogurt or skinny jeans, having spontaneous, no-strings-attached sex with older British men in semi-public places was the new Thing to Do. Eames was going to open a copy of Cosmo and read all about it one day. There would be an article and a picture of Arthur, open-mouthed and lush, all 'How I Discovered Myself Through Sex (and Lost 20 Pounds)'

But that was ridiculous. Arthur wasn't that much younger than he was, and going by how many targets they could hit in a spray of machine gun fire, Eames was a lot cooler than he was.

Eames even did yoga. It helped for a forger to be flexible. But then Arthur was there, on his mat at the back of the gym, watching Eames as he stretched. 

"Go to your happy place, your centre of joy," the yoga instructor said in a melodious voice.

Arthur scooched his mat closer to Eames.

Eames pretended very strongly not to know who the hell he was. 

"Lift your hips," the instructor said. She walked around the gym and then paused. "Hey you, dark-haired guy, not like that. This is a family-friendly environment, all right?"

"So," Arthur said when the class was over and he was sticking close to Eames, all the way into the changing rooms. "I was sitting on a beach in St. Maarten's and I thought about you."

"Was this before or after the tequila?" Eames smirked, but he looked when Arthur took off his shirt, because he was high and mighty but not dead.

"I needed a cooldown after our last job," Arthur continued while changing. "The beach, the air, the salt in the sea — it made me think. About the things I really want in life."

"Arthur," Eames said slowly, "you don't know what you want in life. You're like the weather. You blow in and out, and you never stay in one place long enough. You say rain, I say hail. I think it's balmy, but actually it's time to get out the scarf and gloves."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Arthur said. He turned his head slightly and was frowning. "I thought we're having a good time."

"Aren't we?" Eames said. 

"But I'm like the weather," Arthur repeated. "Well, maybe I don't want to be the weather."

"Then decide what you do want to be," Eames said, and was so distracted by the shape of Arthur's mouth that he had to touch it. Arthur was looking at him weirdly, almost like he thought Eames was missing a big piece of the puzzle — but who knew why Arthur did any of the crazy, sexy, stupid things he did?

 

 

It wasn't entirely Arthur's fault. Eames was willing to be fair. Maybe it was partly his own fault too, for dangling his hook after a fish who only swam on Saturdays. It was a big ocean, and all that, and so one rainy day he finished his computations for his next heist and went down to the pub, where he found a gorgeous, droopy-eyed ex-seminary student, and proceeded to flirt with him until either the world ended or Eames got laid.

Unfortunately, the world ended first. That was because Arthur stepped into the pub and shook the rain off his umbrella. Eames had rather thought he was supposed to be in Mumbai, but no, there was Arthur all right, and it probably wasn't because he'd turned his GPS upside down. Arthur's glance flicked towards Eames and Ex-Seminary, and he came over, smiling.

"Hi," he said.

"I'm busy," Eames said.

"We're old friends," Arthur told Ex-Seminary. He leaned against their table with one hip, still smiling. "Didn't think I'd see him down here. What with the bird flu."

Ex-Seminary mumbled some excuse about rediscovering God, so sorry, he had to go. 

"Hell," Eames said. He tilted his head back and stared up at Arthur through his lashes. "You really had to do that, didn't you? Like some compulsion. And he had such _lovely_ hands too."

"Oh please," Arthur said, "if you'd rather go home tonight with some overgrown altar boy who doesn't know what to do on his knees... well, not unless he gets to call you Father, I suppose."

"You're depraved," Eames drawled, trying not to sound too admiring.

"I'll buy you a drink," Arthur said generously, sliding into the booth.

 

 

Eames woke up with his arse sore and a crick in his neck. He rolled over to find the other side of the bed empty, which didn't surprise him in the least because Arthur almost never stayed, not when he could wander away to whatever bigger and better things there were out there. Except: when Eames went to his kitchen, Arthur was there, cracking eggs into a bowl.

He was terrible at it. Eames made a mental note to stop handing Arthur grenades — clearly it was only luck that had kept them all from a terrible, painful death so far.

"What are you doing?" Eames asked, folding his arms. 

"I thought you wanted me to make you an omelette," Arthur said. He scooped out a piece of eggshell with his pinkie. Eames wanted to ask if he'd washed his hands first. "It was a thinly veiled metaphor, or something. I don't know. I skipped that class in high school."

"The egg class, or the metaphor class?"

"Actually, to be fair," Arthur said, "I skipped all my classes." He went back to fishing the broken shells from the whites, and Eames watched him silently, aware of the curve of Arthur's fingers, the slope of his naked shoulders. He thought, _Maybe we can be happy, just like this_.

Arthur found all the pieces of shell and grinned.

It turned out the omelette wasn't terrible. It was pretty decent, actually, because while Arthur's skill with the main ingredient was questionable, he was a deft hand with the spices, and Eames remembered how they had first met: in an Indian restaurant with Cobb, and Arthur had knocked over the spices on the table, right onto Eames' lap. _Sorry_ , Arthur had said innocently. _I can wipe that up for you_ , while Cobb looked straight at Eames in warning, his eyes saying, _This boy is dangerous_.

It'd been a long time since Arthur was a boy, though. And anyway, Eames finished the omelette. He scraped his fork along the inside of his plate, watching Arthur eat his breakfast, getting bits of egg on his stubble, looking messy and unkempt and human. 

"This is just an idea," Eames said. "But I've got an extra key to my flat that I don't use. And there's this new place down the street that I've always meant to try. They serve great curry. Two for one special tonight."

Arthur looked up at him. Somewhere on the radio a meteorologist was saying, _Looks like it's going to be 29 degrees, bright and sunny on Saturday, folks_ , and it was.

"Fuck," Arthur said meaningfully, reaching out to touch his hand. "I thought you'd never ask."


	3. Arthur/Ariadne, PG, 1k

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arthur/Ariadne, PG, 1k.  
> For Lauren.

“--where it goes,” says Arthur.

His voice eddies in the the ceramic cavern of his diner mug, a confused garble of echoes she can’t quite make out. Ariadne takes her time and swallows her bite before she asks him, “sorry, what was that?”

“I was just wondering,” he says, lowering the mug just far enough for his upper lip to peek out over the rim, “where all of that goes. You’re, what, four feet tall? Ninety pounds?”

“Five foot two,” she says, “and it’s none of your business.”

“It _is_ my business,” he says. “Say a bullet comes in through the passenger-side window--”

“Arthur,” she says, cutlery jangling against her plate, “stop.”

He does; that stops the stirring of his lip, and she spears a shard of wilted pepper with her fork, a little disappointed despite herself. Where all of it goes is, it goes into the jitter of her foot against the floor mat as she keeps her eyes on the rearview mirror, and it goes into the white-knuckled grip of her fingers around the inside handle, and it goes into the ache in her limbs when they roll off another rock-hard cot with the thin morning sun leaking through the blinds. All of it (Denver omelette, hash browns, whole wheat toast, coffee, two sugars) goes into running.

“It’s a regular-sized meal,” she says. “Wait, shut up, I don’t have to explain myself to you. Are you enjoying your coffee?”

“Passably,” he says.

“Was the seventh cup better, or the eighth?” she asks. “Would you like me to wait until you drink the whole diner dry?”

“Okay, you’ve made your point,” he says. He sets down the mug, checks his watch, and stretches with his eyes narrowed in something between a smile and a yawn. They darken in a crescent sweep of lashes, and -- not for the first time -- she wonders how he ever managed without her. Or if he ever really managed, without her.

“What’s the time?” she asks.

“Two-forty,” he says, and stays where he is.

The graveyard shift short-order cook and the waitress slump by the formica counter, uninterested in putting up any chipper facade when the only two customers they have don’t seem the picky sort. They’re right; the eggs are a little watery and so is the coffee, the crust of the whole wheat toast unyielding, but it seems a luxury that they’re in a diner at all. _A treat,_ said Arthur, _for being two whole states ahead of the hunt,_ and Ariadne was briefly sick with horror at the excited lilt of his voice.

“Did you call Eames?” she asks. “About the passports?”

“Yeah,” Arthur answers. “We’re Greek. He said to tell you he did it for you.”

“ _Yiasas?_ ” she tries. “Spanakopita? I’m from Calgary.”

“No matter,” he says, “it’ll be the American embassy, anyway. He’s fast-tracking it. Ten days, maybe eleven, tops.”

“Good,” she says. Head tilted back, she stares up at the water-cracked blotches of plaster on the ceiling. Struck with the wild impulse to tear at all the edges, to peel them away just to get at the naked concrete beneath, she flexes her fingers against her palms. “Shouldn’t we start heading out?”

“Oh,” he says, mock-offended, “I’m paying?”

“You’re holding the retainer fee,” she says. “First thing we land, we’re going to get you to a bank and I’m going to get my cut. In the meanwhile, honestly, I think the least you can do is buy breakfast.”

“Hard bargain,” he says, and motions for the bill. She follows the quick flick of his fingers, the curve of his throat at his open collar. In his getaway uniform he’s made of looser lines than usual, and the hem of his untucked shirt twists taut around his hips when he moves to stand.

He kissed her, once. Twenty-nine and he’s just a child, still believing with all his feral heart in the glamor of the chase. As though there’s any magic to be found in dragging a cloud of ruddy dust behind them through this tired country, the fitful grimy naps, the gas-station bags of trail mix, the water dribbling down in anemic spurts from the showerhead. As though he knows what she’s like, or what it is that she wants.

_Sure,_ she thinks. _I’ll kiss you._ Pressing him hard into the creaking springs of the motel bed, in the drawer of the bedside dresser a Glock, a Gideon Bible. _You don’t get to taste me and turn away._ She thinks of his pulse jumping beneath her touch, and in her dreams, her grip wraps easy around his wrists.

 

 

In the desolation of the parking lot, their banged-up Honda Civic cuts a figure too conspicuous for comfort. They make their way across the open expanse of asphalt, Arthur in long sauntering strides with his hands thrust in his pockets, Ariadne huddled against the night air, half expecting the glare of unwelcome headlights to pin her in place as they swing into her path.

“Hey,” she says, “what do you suppose they thought we were? The people working at the diner?”

“Fugitives, I hope,” he says, too brightly for his own good. “I don’t know. Traveling magicians. Newlyweds.”

She doesn’t know if he thought to tease her with it, or what the hell sort of kick he thinks she’s getting out of being on the lam with him -- if he thinks she’s _flattered,_ or if he thinks she’s _honored_ \-- but then he fumbles with the keyless entry button on the remote and it takes him a couple moments too long until the car beeps in answer.

“I’ll drive,” she says.

He pauses, says, “thank you,” and tosses her the keys; she grabs at them blindly and ends up with a handful of metal. She locks and unlocks the doors again, keys held low like she’s shooting from the hip.


	4. Arthur/Ariadne, PG-13, 1k

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arthur/Ariadne, PG-13, 1k.  
> For Annie.

The first phone call Ariadne makes after the Fischer job is to her parents' landline in upper Michigan.

It's a secure line, she knows, and a disposable phone, but they're old hats at security.

"How's the work study job going?" her mother asks over the phone. She can hear her dad walking in the background.

"It wrapped up a couple days ago. I'm in California for now," she says, because California's a big state but she doesn't need to start giving up specifics on the phone. 

"When does the next semester start?" her dad asks.

"I think I'm done with school now."

"Sweetheart, you're--"

"I just think I have a pretty good job offer lined up." She pauses. "I mean, grad school can't compare to what I can build in the real world. This work-study position really opened my eyes to the possibilities."

There's grumbling on their end, and part of her wants to spill everything to them, make sure they understand about the literal impossibilities she could control in dreams.

But she won't. It's not safe, for one. And she knew it was time for her to start collecting her own secrets.

 

 

The next phone call she makes is to Eames.

Eames, it turns out, is nowhere near as accommodating as her parents are. He sounds scandalized at the prospect of her not returning to university.

"Well I don't have any work lined up anyway -- couldn't be sure if I could take a job so soon after what we had planned," he says. "And with that paycheck, it could be, oh, say about eight months until I take another job."

"Oh, how convenient. I guess you're expecting m to finish up my thesis while I wait patiently for you to remember me?"

He laughs, an edge there. "I couldn't take on someone who didn't have the right credentials, Ariadne."

"Fine, if you don't want to work with me, give me Arthur's contact info." 

"That information costs more than you can afford, my dear. Maybe you'll get it after our next job."

"In eight months."

"Unless you've got a better way of contacting him, you're stuck with me."

Ariadne frowns. She really can't think of a second plan of attack -- Yusuf isn't trustworthy, and neither is Cobb. Saito would never take a call from anyone on that job ever again. Eames slipping her a business card as they exited the plane was the only reason she even knew to call him.

 

 

She finishes her master's because there's not much else she can do, if she wants to stay on Eames' radar. There are other ways to dive into dreamshare, and she's researched as much as she dared, but it doesn't seem worth it. Throwing herself into a world like that, she'd like to have a guide she's familiar with.

She ends up with full honors, and her parents come to her graduation.

"You ever think of moving closer to home?" her mother asks. "Not that we can't make it, hun, but the travel takes a lot out of me."

Ariadne can't help but laugh.

 

 

Her first job with Eames is a subconscious security job, and the next one is too. She has to set up mazes, levels to train the mind to protect itself. There's a few dreamthefts, but nothing that takes her down more than one level.

It doesn't take long for her to get bored.

"These are milk runs," she tells him. He's taken her out to dinner, but his eyes have been on the heiress sitting in the corner of the restaurant. She'd be more annoyed if she hadn't expected it, but it doesn't make her less bored when she has to meet with rich businessmen.

"Arthur would kill me if I got you into trouble," Eames says, "so it's really as much for my protection as yours."

"I'm exceedingly good at getting myself out of trouble," she says. 

"Which is why you're trying so hard to cavort with wanted criminals," he says. "That reads exactly like you're trying to stay out of trouble."

She rolls her eyes. "I think you and I both know I'm ready for the big leagues. even if you're gearing up for retirement."

"And that's why I'm going to send you an address. I thought I'd miss the challenge but I don't, really. Easy money leaves less room for me to lose my mind."

He slides his napkin over to Ariadne. It's in New York, which is close enough to where she's staying in Toronto. She hates traveling from continent continent, but neighboring countries should be a piece of cake.

"I'm paying for dinner, aren't I?" she asks and he smiles.

"It's the least you could do."

 

 

Arthur isn't nearly surprised enough when Ariadne lets herself into his New York City apartment. He's on the couch with a book in his lap and two glasses of wine on the table. 

"Ariadne," Arthur says. He's smiling a little as he stands up and she goes for the hug with gusto. He looks less pale than she remembers him being, skin bronzed by sun and hair a little longer.

"Eames called you," she says after they disengage. She drops her bags on the floor and folds her arms in front of her chest. "It's not fair when you both team up against me."

"Eames knows I don't appreciate surprises," Arthur says mildly, and then he grins. "How long were you planning on staying?"

"Until you take me on as your partner," she says, moving to the kitchen to grab a glass of water. "Obviously."

He leans up against the counter and smiles at her. "I was wondering when you were going to press Eames for a challenge."

"You two are really terrible, you know that?"

"I just don't like waiting," Arthur says, and he picks up her luggage.

 

 

The jobs are harder than she expects. After successfully incepting Fischer with the need to split his empire, she figured everything would pale in comparison.

But Arthur pushes her to give him her best work on every job and lets her get elaborate with the histories she puts into her architecture. He only takes on the best clients, jobs that are less dangerous.

But there's always an exception and when it hits, Ariadne learns just how loud a gunshot is in real life. They're in Jordan, and Ariadne isn't sure if she's horrified or thrilled.

"Fuck," Arthur says, pressed up against the wall by the shoulder. His gun's out and hot from use.

"I can get us out," Ariadne whispers to him.

"I don't want you to risk it."

"No, I mean, as a decoy. Trust me."

Her hand curls around his wrist and she grips it tight. He's holding the PASIV and that hand and doesn't jerk away.

"Ariadne," Arthur says, looking back at her and then at the wider walkway.

"Look, -- just, it's worth a shot."

She leans in and kisses him. It's a good distraction.

 

 

Arthur blinks reflexively and opens his eyes to his apartment in New York. Ariadne's pulling away, leaning back on her heels and dropped his arm. There's low-grade nausea that comes with a big jump but it's not nearly as bad as she expected.

"Don't shoot," she says, keeping her voice soft and level.

Arthur doesn't, but she can tell it's a near thing, the bowtight tension in his muscles.

""You're bleeding," she says, and he's still crouched and blinking, knuckles white around the handle of the PASIV.

"Arthur," she says again.

"I'm awake, aren't I?" he says. Arthur takes a long time to lower his gun, stick his hand in a trouser pocket and fumble with something.

She's seen his totem.

"So."

"I've never done it over this much distance before." Ariadne's feeling light-headed -- maybe pulling Arthur along took more out of her than she thought.

The gun settles on his floor and he stares at her.

"You did... this is incredible, Ariadne!"

She smiles at him. "I know." Ariadne pulls herself to her feet and gets Arthur standing too.

"You're not mad?" she asks, and he laughs.

"Why would I be mad? You just saved my life."

"Sometimes guys get intimidated when they find out I can use magic." She shrugs at him.

"So it's not just teleportation?"

"That's probably what I'm best at, but no, I can do other stuff."

He sets the PASIV on the counter and looks down at her. "Were you just waiting for the opportunity to show me to present itself? If I'd known you could do this our escapes could have been less dramatic earlier."

Ariadne laughs and grabs his hand. "It's not something my family likes to brag about." 

"When do I get to meet your parents?" he asks, smiling at her again, and she kisses him. It lasts a lot long, this time, than the blink of an eye.


End file.
